


An Ordinary Life

by Barb Cummings (Rahirah)



Series: The Barbverse [58]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-19
Updated: 2009-11-19
Packaged: 2017-10-03 10:13:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rahirah/pseuds/Barb%20Cummings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One birth, one wedding, and one funeral.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Ordinary Life

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set in the same universe as _A Raising in the Sun_, _Necessary Evils_, et. al. (See the [Barbverse Timeline](http://sleepingjaguars.com/buffy/viewpage.php?page=timeline) for specifics.) It contains spoilers for previous works in the series. It was inspired by a poll I saw somewhere about what kinds of stories people like. Someone (I'm afraid I can't remember who, but if anyone knows, I'll happily give them inspiration credit) said something to the effect that the only kind of story they couldn't read were stories where Buffy and Spike get married and have babies, and the story is about their ordinary life. That stuck with me, and so...
> 
> _Buffy and Spike get married and have babies. This is their ordinary life._

1.

"Here he is," says Buffy, flicking the light on in the nursery. It's only a twenty-five-watt bulb. She dithered over candles when they were decorating, but in the end, she decided that however kind to young vampire eyes their light might be, she didn't want anything fire-shaped around her all-too-flammable baby. Aunt Darlene looks around approvingly at the bright mobile hanging over the crib, the homey braided rug, and the changing table decorated with dancing teddy bears. Less approvingly at the closely shuttered window and the Man U posters plastering the walls. Billy wakes as Buffy lifts him out of the crib, with the fretful mew that means he wants to be nursed. Buffy bites her lip, and after a brief cuddle, hands him over. _Don't vamp out don't vamp out don't vamp out..._

But Billy's eyes remain a cloudy blue, and his face is no more scrunchy than your average three-month-old baby. Go Team Normal. "Oh, how darling!" cries Aunt Darlene, as she takes the wiggling bundle from Buffy's arms. "Heavens, he's cold! You have to be careful, Buffy, especially when they're this age. He'll catch a chill. And it's so dark in here - " She looks around, bewildered. "Do you have a dog?"

"It's the neighbors'," Buffy says with a quelling look at Spike, who throttles his growl down to an imperceptible rumble. He's fidgeting in the doorway, just itching to snatch his son away. Spike is usually more than happy to officiate as high priest of the shrine of William Henry Summers-Pratt Junior, but the anti-smoking lecture Darlene delivered earlier put his back up. "Sweety-punkin," Buffy adds with a guileless flutter of lashes, "I'm thirsty. Could you run down to the fridge and get me a Tab?"

Spike's eyes narrow and he mouths _sweety-punkin?_ but he goes. Buffy turns back to her aunt with a determined smile. "We're supposed to keep him cool. He's got an, um, condition. Idiopathic atypical porphyria. It runs in Spike's family. No exposure to sunlight, and a special diet once he's weaned. Doctor's orders!"

Toss some Latin around, and all anyone will want to know is whether or not your insurance covers it. Aunt Darlene coos and Billy gurgles back, his fat fists pumping the air. It doesn't take long before they're involved in the far more important question of whether Billy's got his mother's eyes or his father's chin, and if his wispy hair is starting to curl or not. Buffy's glad to have something innocuous to talk about. It's always been a little weird with Aunt Darlene, because of Celia.

It's not like her aunt's ever said anything. She doesn't even know about the Kindestod, and Buffy's pretty certain that trying to assuage her survivor's guilt with "Sorry I stood there and panicked while an invisible lobster-eyed demon killed your daughter, but I was only eight, and I did get around to killing it ten years later! Forgive me?" wouldn't go over very well. But Darlene is all the family they have left on Mom's side, and it feels dishonest, pretending that there's nothing weird about her husband, or her son, or _her_. Buffy doesn't want to break the vampire news when it might precipitate screaming, running, or the dropping on his head of her firstborn. But she feels like she owes her aunt the screaming and running option.

By the time Spike returns with Tabs for her and her aunt, and a bottle of Guinness for himself, Billy's starting to fuss, and Aunt Darlene hands him back to Buffy scant moments before he starts doing what hungry vampires do naturally. Spike's arm curls around her waist (Yay! Waist!) as she unbuttons her blouse, and Buffy leans into him as Billy latches on to her nipple and sucks lustily. She wishes she didn't feel quite so relieved that she hasn't started leaking yet - she has no idea how she'd explain the blood.

"He's such a good-tempered baby," Aunt Darlene enthuses.

Spike's still growling deep down in his chest, almost a purr. She can tell he's weighing Aunt Darlene's unfortunate Failure To Be Joyce against her laudable efforts in affirming Billy as the most extraordinary baby to be produced in recent history. Buffy settles into the rocking chair and looks down at her son with a smile. "Well, mostly. He can be a real monster, too. Someday I'll tell you about it."

2.

She is, Buffy decides, just a teeny bit drunk.

Only a teeny bit, because she is Slayer, hear her roar, and it takes more than three (OK, four) glasses of Pinot Noir to vanquish her... her... uh... whatever. It also takes a hot summer night, shrill with cicadas. It takes sparse city stars scattered overhead, the smell of exhaust fumes and dry grass, and the impress of bricks, warm against her shoulder blades. It takes callused fingers snagging her silk camisole, cool soft lips slurring filthy, whiskey-scented endearments into her ear, and the whole lean, muscled weight of him pinning her to the wall as Spike thrusts lazily into her.

The band is playing in the not-so-distance, bass line thumping through the wall of the Palo Verde Room of the Sunnydale Marriott. She really ought to get back inside and resume her sisterly duty of riding herd on presents and caterers and cake and guests so Dawn and That Spotty Git Who Doesn't Half Deserve Her could sneak away. But. Cicadas and stars and Pinot Noir, and a taller-than-her-now little sister who'd whispered fiercely, "This is real, today is real," as Spike escorted her up the aisle in full punk 'I've still got it, tossers,' regalia.

And hey. Maid of honor, here. (She refuses to be a matron of anything.) Getting laid is traditional. She digs her nails into Spike's shoulders and scissors her legs around his hips. Her body buzzes and hums in time with the mating throb of the cicadas, and the stars spin tipsily overhead. In a minute (or five, or ten), they'll go back. But for now he's in no hurry to come, and neither is she.

3.

It's raining on the day they bury her Watcher, raining down on green grass and black earth and white tombstones. Clouds lower over the city and wrap the stone spires of Bath Abbey in long grey winding-sheets of mist. Buffy is all for rain. It means that when water beads on her cheeks, no one will know if she's crying or not. It also means, much to the Council's disgust, that Willow and Spike are at her side instead of holed up in the hotel room, trapped by the sun. Spike's hand in hers provides no warmth, but he's the only thing she'll let herself hang on to.

"...as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear brother here departed..."

Willow is sniffling behind her. Spike's lips move silently in time with the priest's: _ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life._ They went to a lot more funerals, two centuries back; he knows this stuff by heart. In a weird way, he's more religious than she is, for all she's been to heaven. He was a good Anglican, once upon a time. He sneers at the rituals now - vampire; it's in the contract - but deep down, they mean something to him. To her, it's all just words.

"Our Father, which art in heaven..."

The Watchers huddle together beneath a cluster of umbrellas, like crows on a fence-line, grim old men and women all in funeral black. Behind them stand half a dozen Council-trained Slayers with crossbows, their gazes bored or curious or just assessing: see the Fabulous Buffy Summers, Rogue Slayer Extraordinare, and her Exotic Vampire Paramour! They look young and strong and alert and competent: Kendra-squared.

Beside her, Faith mutters, "We could still kick their asses, B." It's the first thing she's said all morning. Her face is puffy and drawn, and her eyes are red from more than the tequila she put away last night. For the first time ever, Faith looks her age. Spike always thought there was something going on there. Buffy's never asked, and Giles had never told, but right now she kind of hopes Spike's right, even though it's got to be harder on Faith if he is. She wants to believe Giles had someone.

"...all those that are departed in the true faith of thy holy Name, may have our perfect consummation and bliss..."

Buffy tosses her handful of dirt on the casket. Lydia Chalmers, thin and grey and severe, meets her eyes across the uncompromising gape of the grave. She's the Head of the Council now; Quentin Travers preceded Giles into the hereafter fifteen years ago. Her eyes move beyond Buffy, beyond Faith - to Rona, and Liv, and Buffy's own daughter Connie, and all the others, the ones the Council couldn't hold on to. The ones who'd listened to the fearsome old man and the dark fey Slayer at his side when they spoken the truths that the Council would have kept hidden. The ones who've chosen to walk away - to fight their own fight in their own way, or not to fight at all. They're Slayers - but they're doctors and lawyers and insurance adjustors, too, and mothers and sisters and daughters and aunts. Every one of them had the choice Buffy never got, and Rupert Giles gave it to them.

"Grant this, we beseech thee, O merciful Father..."

When the first shovelful hits the casket with a hollow thunk, Faith breaks down sobbing, and Willow puts an arm around her shoulders. Buffy holds tight to Spike, and together they walk through the rain, through the wet green English grass. As they pass another recent grave, a hand thrusts up through the mud, and then another, and a new-fledged vampire blinks up at the cloudy sky in confusion. "Oi!" it yells after Willow and Spike. "You two! Save some for me, I'm starv - "

Buffy drops Spike's hand, bends down and rams a stake through its heart. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. She's not sure she believes in God. But she did go to Heaven once, a long time ago.

She hopes that counts for something.

END


End file.
